


not home for the holidays

by semipeaceful x you (semipeaceful)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (but its non-specified winter-esque holiday), (non-specified winter-esque holiday), Alternate Universe - Bed & Breakfast, Decorating together, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Holidays, M/M, Making Snowmen, chistmas shopping together, cooking together, for reader, its just so much fluff, some angst in kiyoko's, yeah this is a hallmark movie, you own a bed and breakfast and they're your pain-in-the-ass guests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semipeaceful/pseuds/semipeaceful%20x%20you
Summary: Holiday-themed one-shots featuring you and your guests in the various rooms of your bed and breakfast.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Reader, Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader, Miya Osamu/Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader, Shimizu Kiyoko/Reader, Tendou Satori/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	1. Kitchen (Osamu)

You spend most of your time surrounded by people. Entertaining guests and providing homey hospitality is half your job after all. Therefore, you tend to relish the time you have to yourself. Cooking dinner, like you do every evening, is one of those times.

Unfortunately, it seems like one of your guests didn't get that memo.

“Can I hide in here?”

You blink. One second ago, you were alone in the kitchen, washing vegetables for dinner, but now there’s a man, tucked against the wall of the kitchen, glancing fearfully into the hallway.

“Not from the cops, I hope.”

“No,” the man says, even though the intensity wedged deep into the furrow of his eyebrows says otherwise. “My brother.”

 _Ah_. He’s one of your guests. Now you recognize him as one of the twins that you checked in yesterday, the one that slapped his brother on the arm as you led them to their room. You never did get an explanation for the assault, but, hey. Siblings.

The man clears his throat in front of you, and you remember that he asked a question. You’re not exactly used to having an audience as you cook, but also, you don’t see why not, so you shrug and the man sighs, shutting the door closed behind him.

“Thanks. I’m Miya Osamu, by the way.”

“Y/n.”

Miya nods his head in greeting, sliding into one of the barstools at the end of the kitchen island. He pulls out his phone and you continue washing potatoes. It’s quiet, and a little awkward, but not unbearable.

Then Osamu’s phone starts to ring. Well, _vibrate,_ to be more accurate, spasming violently in Osamu’s hand, and it startles him so much that he almost drops it, before catching it in his other hand and trying to pretend like that slip never happened.

Meanwhile, the phone keeps ringing.

“Are you gonna get that?”

“Nope,” Osamu says. He flips through something on his phone, and the ringing stops, even though his phone on the counter stays lit up with the notification of an incoming call from contact name: Asshole.

“Is there a particular reason why you’re trying so hard to avoid your brother?”

Osamu scowls, and somehow scowls even harder when his phone lights up again. _Incoming call from Asshole._

“It was his idea to come here as a _sibling bonding vacation,_ ” Osamu says, emphasizing that last part with unenthusiastic air quotes. “I haven’t spent this much time with him since we were in high school. I just need a second alone.”

“Sounds like you two are close.”

Osamu makes an uncommitted sound, somewhere between a grunt and a huff, and rejects the next phone call that comes in. “If you call driving each other up the wall everytime we’re in the same room as each other as _close_ , then yeah.”

“Distance helps with that,” you say, as you pull out a cutting board for your freshly washed vegetables. “If you spend enough time apart, you’ll start to appreciate the time you can spend with each other.”

At first, Osamu doesn’t respond, just watches as you slowly begin to chip away at the mountain of vegetables you need to chop for the stew. Hesitantly, he finally asks, “Do you want help with that?”

“This is kind of what you’re paying me for,” you laugh. “Besides, no offense, but my reputation as a host is dependent on evenly cooked vegetables, so if you mess up...”

“I own a restaurant,” Osamu says, deadpan. “I don’t think I’ll fuck up chopping carrots.”

With a shrug, you get out a second cutting board and knife, sliding it across the counter. “If that’s how you want to spend your vacation.”

Osamu washes his hands, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work. He’s quick with the knife, quicker than you, so you start on the actual base of stew as he works, dicing and chopping. Usually, you cook by yourself, but it feels good to do it with someone else for a change, working in silence as you both attend to your tasks.

After cooking the floured beef, you add a few splashes of red wine and keep stirring. Once it's ready, you add the broth, and wait for it to come to a simmer.

Osamu, on the other hand, made quick work of the pile of potatoes, onions, and carrots and he quietly slides the pile of diced produce towards you.

“Stew?” He asks, peeking into the pot with a watchful eye.

“Yep. It’s cold outside, and this stew recipe is pretty hearty, so…”

“It’s a good idea,” Osamu says, with a quiet, fond smile. As he talks, one hand reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, a strangely endearing nervous tic. “My mom used to make stew for us after we got home from nationals every year back in high school. It smells like her recipe.”

“Do you want to try it?” You ask, digging for a spoon in the silverware drawer. “Obviously, it's not done, but…”

Osamu accepts your offer, and takes the spoon from you, closing his eyes as he lets the beef broth and wine run down his throat. “Tastes like her recipe, too.”

“Do you mind getting out the tableware? Bowls are in the top cupboard to the right of the sink.”

“And you sound like her, too,” Osamu grumbles, but he laughs when you do, and obediently traipses across the kitchen.

The quiet returns, briefly, but this time it's tainted, distantly, by the sound of someone yelling. Although muffled, it sounds vaguely like they’re shouting a name, so you tilt your head and listen harder to make out the syllables.

“‘Samu!” The voice yells again, significantly louder this time, as the speaker gets closer to the kitchen.

“Is that-” You start to ask, but the scowl on Osamu’s face answers your question for you. Before you can think better of it, you point to the door in the corner of the room. “You can hide in the pantry?”

Osamu blinks, and it takes him a second to process the words, but then he grins, darting into the tiny space and shutting the door just as the kitchen door opens.

“Is Osamu in here?” The other Miya asks, grinning as he leans into the kitchen. “Looks like me, except dark hair and less handsome?”

“Hm,” you hum, as you go back to stirring the stew. “No, I haven’t seen anyone like that.”

The blond Miya nods thoughtfully, but, unfortunately, doesn’t leave. Instead, he slides into the seat that had been previously occupied by Osamu, still sporting that same mischievous grin. “The name’s Atsumu.”

“Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you. You know, my brother is a chef.”

“Really?” You ask, biting your lip to avoid laughing. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu continues, his smile growing. “He’s good, too. Makes the best onigiri I’ve ever eaten, which is good, because if he quit playing volleyball to do something he sucked at, I think I would have to disown him. Did I mention that? We played volleyball together. He honestly could have gone professional if he wanted to, like me, but I suppose I can forgive him since he’s so successful-”

“Miya,” you interrupt. “Are you talking up your brother to me?”

Atsumu shuts up, and has the decency to at least look a little embarrassed, as his cheeks flush a little and his grin loosens up just the tiniest bit. He rubs his neck, a gesture that you saw only a few minutes earlier on his twin brother, and says, sheepishly, “You got me. But… just between you and me,” he takes a second to glance about the room, like confirming his brother wasn’t actually in the room and he just hadn’t noticed the first time, before leaning forward and stage-whispering conspiratorially, “he thought you were cute when you checked us in yesterday.”

“Did he now?”

“Uh-huh,” Atsumu says, that mischievous glint back in his eye. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

And with that, Atsumu winks, rising from his chair and leaving back through the door, giving one last wave before it closes shut behind him.

You wait a moment, but when the pantry door doesn’t open, you say, “You can come out now, Osamu.”

“I don’t want to,” comes the muffled response.

For the second time, you have to bite your lip to stop the laugh that threatens to escape. “Not even if I offer you another taste of the stew?”

Slowly, the pantry door swings open. Osamu walks out, one hand self-consciously running through his hair, not quite looking you in the eyes.

“Is it possible for you to forget everything my brother said?”

You tilt your head, a teasing lilt to your words as you ask, “You think I’m cute?”

“When you’re not conspiring with my brother,” Osamu replies, shuffling his feet in a way that could only be described as _quietly self-conscious_. “Then yeah. I think you’re cute.”

For some reason, the admission takes you by surprise, and your cheeks flush even though you were the one that goaded him to it in the first place.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat and looking back down at the stew. “I guess you made an effective sous chef, Miya, so if you would like to return tomorrow, I won’t complain.”

Osamu smiles, and you’re pleased to note that his eyes drift up from the floor to you, frown sliding into something more like that playful grin like his brother’s just a second ago. “I guess that depends. What’s on the menu?”

“I was thinking… onigiri. Know anyone that could help me with that?”


	2. Sitting Room (Tendou)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're snowed in."

Once upon a time, waking up to a winter wonderland of snow outside your window was something to be excited about. It was the first snow of winter, a sign that the holidays were soon to come! Time to make snowmen and drink hot chocolate and bring out the big old bin of decorations from the attic!

Now, some decade and a half later, all the sight of the snow does is fill you with an inescapable  _ dread. _

Someone has to scrape the snow off those sidewalks. Someone has to worry about the heavy snow bringing down a power line. Someone has to put salt on the pavement to prevent ice so  _ someone  _ doesn’t get sued.

And yes, that  _ someone  _ is you, so you roll out of bed, into your best winter clothes, and hurry downstairs. If you’re fast, maybe you can get most of it done before you need to make breakfast. It's not a huge rush; you only have one guest right now, a tall man with red hair, and from the last couple days, you already know likes to sleep in. This snow, however, needs to be gone before your new guest arrives today, so snow first, then breakfast.

You take a deep breath, embracing the warmth of the house for just one last measly second, and go to open the front door.

It doesn’t budge.

Frowning, you double-check the lock, making sure the deadbolt is in the correct position. It is, so you try the door again.

It doesn’t budge.

You push harder.

It. Doesn’t. Budge.

With a grunt, you shove your entire body, every ounce of force you can manage, half-asleep, at seven in the morning, against the door.

It budges. Just a little, just a tiny crack through which you can see the…  _ four feet of snow. _

You’re snowed in.

_ Wonderful _ .

Shedding your winter gear as you go, you make your way to the sitting room, trying to figure out the next step. Maybe you could call for help? Pay a couple local teenagers to shovel your door free? You have to let your guests in and out  _ somehow _ , what the hell were you going to do about this new guest-

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Your  _ work  _ phone, so you dig it out of your five million layers, answering the call without even reading the caller ID.

“I have to cancel my reservation,” says the voice. “My train got cancelled because of the snow.”

You hang up the call with mixed feelings. That solves some of the urgency, but you would be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed about the missing income. Still, it gives you time to breathe, and think, and you hold your head in your hands for comfort.

You’re sitting there for so long (maybe you accidentally fell back asleep?), that when you look up, you jump. Your guest is awake, leaning against the entryway into the sitting room, one confused eyebrow cocked as he looks you up and down.

“We’re snowed in,” you say.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” he says, nonchalant. He shrugs, gestures to the television above the fireplace. “I can entertain myself.”

For a second, just a single second, you allow yourself to feel relieved.  _ Maybe you’ll get through this after all. _

And with that, the power goes out.

“ _ Fuck. _ ”

It’s a delicate dance, carefully avoiding being in the same room as your lone guest.

It’s nothing against the guy, Tendou, you believe his name is, but it's… awkward. You can’t leave, you have to use  _ flashlights  _ to get around due to the lack of electricity and lack of sun (thanks again, snow), and you’re lowkey convinced that you’re living in a horror movie, because sometimes you’ll turn around without realizing he followed you into the kitchen and all you see is  _ tall  _ and  _ red _ and  _ oh my god _ , oh! It's just Tendou. Again.

You do what chores you can. Changing bedsheets with a flashlight in your teeth, setting out a couple ingredients for dinner (thank god you have a gas stove and can  _ cook  _ dinner at all), vacuuming downstairs ( _ battery-powered  _ vacuum, thank god), etc.

The lights still don’t turn on.

In all honesty, with the holidays and this storm and  _ on a Saturday _ , who knows how quickly they’ll get them up and running again.

You check the time.

It’s only eleven.

_ “Fuck. _ ”

Lunch is sandwiches. Normally, you don’t serve lunch, as most of your guests choose to go out themselves to get it, but that’s, unfortunately, not possible on this fine day. So instead, you throw together a couple cold sandwiches and bring them out to the sitting room.

Tendou is in there already, lounging on one of the couches, scrolling through his phone. At this point, most of the clouds have receded, so, from the light filtering in through the windows, you can see him without need of a flashlight. It’s a welcome change from the narrow beam that only seemed to pick up his ginormous red hair. When he notices you approaching, he clicks off his phone, and doesn’t quite smile out of joy, but gives an awkward, thankful half-smile, as he accepts the plate of food.

Halfway through your sandwich, the silence starts to grate on you.

“Sorry,” you say, setting down your sandwich. “I guess this isn’t how you imagined your holiday going.”

Tendou shrugs. “You can’t control the weather. Besides, I’m not sure what else I would be doing. I booked this trip on a whim.”

“Really? You don’t have anything that you wanted to do while you were out here?”

Tendou ponders the question, chewing on it like he chewed on his sandwich. Finally, he says, “Maybe eat. Find a local sweets shop.”

“There’s one on main street in town,” you say, and your mouth waters remembering some of the treats you’ve bought there. “They’re very good.”

“Good to know.”

It falls silent again (god, were you tired of the  _ silent _ ), without even the ever-present hum of electronics to distract. You’re debating between your lackluster prepared get-to-know-you questions (top contenders are  _ What do you do for work?  _ and  _ What’s your favorite food? _ ), when suddenly and without precursor, Tendou throws down his sandwich.

“I’m bored,” he announces, with the disbelief of a man that had never been bored before in his life. “I lied, I can’t entertain myself. Let’s say the snow never melts, lights never come on, what’s our game plan?

You snort. “ _ Our  _ game plan? Please, after day three it's every person for themselves.”

“I like the way you think, that fear of being murdered will keep things interesting.”

“Exactly.”

Tendou laughs, gleefully. He laughs, and you realize very quickly that you want to make him do that again.

“I’d bet,” Tendou says, leaning back in his loveseat, a challenge in the curl of his lip. “Thirty-six hours in, one of us is jumping off a balcony to take out chances in the snow.”

“What, you think we can’t handle being around each other alone for thirty-six hours?”

Tendou shrugs. “You did threaten to kill me, your perfectly innocent guest, not thirty seconds ago.”

“Please don’t put that in your review.”

There it is again. That laugh. You’ve only seen it twice now, but you’ve already decided you like the way he laughs, throwing his whole body into it, an already expressive face devoted to that pure joy of laughter and humor.

Just two minutes ago, it had been awkward, silent,  _ cold, _ but that that ice hadn't so much as broken as completely obliterated, like dropping an ice cube on pavement on a blistering summer day.

It's not summer, it's winter, and yet the chill of the big old house sans the central heating slowly fades away at the sound of Tendou's gleeful laughter.

"Why don't you have any decorations?" Tendou asks, once his giggles have subsided, and he glances about the sitting room. His voice takes a melodic, teasing lilt. "It's the  _ holiday season _ , isn't it?"

Now that was a question you had been asking yourself recently. Everytime you walk past the attic ladder, you have half a mind to just get it over with, pull out the box and go crazy with the lights and tinsel, but you always hesitate with your hand on the door. Something about this year just didn’t feel real. It felt like you were stagnant in November, a weird limbo where the holidays never come.

It never seemed to feel real until it snowed. The first real snow that  _ sticks. _

Well. Crossed that bridge.

“I haven’t put them out yet,” you say, finally. “They’re up in the attic, I just haven’t had time to bring them out.”

“Let’s go then,” Tendou announces, pushing aside his empty plate and standing from the couch. “Lead the way.”

You blink up at him, trying to catch up with his leaps and bounds and grins. “Right now?”

“Do you have something else you need to be doing right now?”

_ Fair point. _

It takes a fair amount of maneuvering to get the both of you into the cramped and dark attic. Thankfully, Tendou was smart enough to bring his phone with him, so he turns on the flash and directs it towards a group of cardboard boxes. There, scribbled with marker, it says  _ holiday decorations _ , so you make some noise of triumph, carefully sliding between Tendou and another pile of boxes to reach the decorations. Unfortunately (fortunately?), that means the two of you are incredibly close, close enough that your sides brush and you can smell his cologne, something just a touch sweet, like the first whiff after walking into a bakery.

One hand bracing the box, you take a second to relax.  _ It’s too much, him, this, that laugh, too much. _

“Need help?” Tendou asks, leaning over your shoulder to peek at what it is holding you up.

You clear your throat, carefully inching around the boxes so that he’s not so close that you can smell that cologne. You go to lift the box, but before you can, Tendou tosses his phone to you, and as you fumble to catch it, Tendou picks up the box instead.

“Could you shine that light on the steps so I don’t kill myself?” Tendou asks, still smiling despite the giant, heavy box of holiday decorations in his hands. Silently, you do, and all three of you: the box, Tendou, and you, make it down the attic ladder and back down to the sitting room in one piece.

Tendou flips open the lid, revealing the mess of blue, white, red, and green.

The both of you get to work.

The first thing to come out of the box is the garland, plastic greenery with little lights, so the first strand goes on top of the fireplace, and as you go to head back into the entryway to wrap the second strand around the stairwell as well, Tendou unearths… the snowman.

It’s an old thing. Small, a little more cream-colored in the places it should really be white colored, with a missing button on its jacket. Where the rest of the decorations are clean, new, commercial, like an artfully staged set for a Hallmark movie,  _ this  _ piece is a little more… homely.

“And who is this guy?” Tendou asks, lifting the plush.

How to explain the snowman? In all honesty, you can’t even remember where it came from. Maybe it was a garage sale, bought as a joke? Maybe one of your employee’s kids had made it, hence why it had never been thrown away. In the end, you suppose it doesn’t matter, because over the years, it became a staple of your holiday decorations.

"Its my snowman. His name is Jeffery."

"Jeffery," Tendou repeats. "Alright."

With a giggle, you take the garland and continue on your way back to the stairwell.

You hear Tendou talking to the snowman, something unintelligible, until you manage to make out the word, "Fireplace."

“If you kill my snowman, I’m killing you,” you shout back, and Tendou’s laugh echoes through the whole downstairs.

When you return to the sitting room, you see the snowman resting peaceful on top of the garland, the centerpiece of the fireplace mantle.

Slowly, the pile of decorations in the box dwindles, and the room looks more and more holiday-esque, fairy lights and snowflakes and candles and garland abound.

Finally, the last decoration, one last snowflake to hang from the wall, is hung up, and the box is empty.

The clock in the corner reads 4 pm, and you wonder where all the time went. Wasn't it just noon?

You glance around the room again. The two of you did a good job, and you’re sure once the lights are on again, the view will be beautiful.

“We did good,” you remark, and when Tendou’s hand slips into yours, much softer and gentler than you expected, you don’t complain about it.

And then, with impeccable timing as always, the power comes back, starting with the hum of the heat making its way through the vents, and then the lamp in the corner flicks on, and then all the fairy-lights, twinkling bright, and, sure enough, its breathtaking in its entirety, and you feel that little rush that comes with the holidays.

You look at Tendou and Tendou looks at you and you both grin.

“We did  _ really _ good.”

It’s a couple weeks before you check your bed and breakfast’s review page. Probably longer than you should have waited, and immediately there's one review in particular sticks out, so you click the link to read it in its entirety.

**Tendou Satori** _5 out of 5 stars_

_ owner of B & B threatened to kill me on multiple occasions. 10/10 would stay again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was watching the mbmbam tv show while I was writing/editing this and I had such a strong urge to write our non-specified winter holiday as just... candlenights. It took effort to restrain myself. You're welcome. Anyways, thanks for reading! Next is Kuroo's on the porch!


	3. Porch (Kuroo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Have you ever made a snowman?"

It’s ten in the morning, and you are starting to get concerned.

There he is again, that man, lingering in front of the bay window facing the front lawn, gazing wistfully at the falling snow.

How long has he been there? Since breakfast, at least. Was he there last night, too? Watching those first flakes fall, dusting everything with a little bit of soft white powder. Either way, the man doesn’t look like he plans on moving anytime soon.

And, yeah, maybe there isn’t much to do otherwise. Most of the attractions of the local town were more summer-based, so many of your guests this time of year are just looking for an escape from their regular life, an excuse to do nothing and watch the snow fall. Writers on a retreat, hoping for a strike of inspiration for their next project. Business-men, on the search for a cheap escape from city life. People looking to spend the holidays somewhere that wasn’t their cold, empty apartments.

Still, watching that man sit, frozen, _entranced_ by the snow outside, was definitely starting to get concerning.

Whatever. You have chores to do.

And then the man moved.

_That_ was the last straw. A couple hours later, when you pass through the entryway, from the stairs to the sitting room to take a break, you notice the man is gone. After a glance outside the windows, you spot him on the porch. Outside. In the freezing cold _winter_ weather.

You watch him for a second, as he leans against the porch railing, still staring at the falling snow.

With a resigned sigh, you reach for your jacket and boots, and follow him outside.

“Hi,” you say, as you sidle up next to him. “Kuroo, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers, but he sounds a little surprised to see you there. “And you… work here at the bed and breakfast?”

“I _own_ the bed and breakfast,” you correct. “The name’s Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Peaceful, as you both watch your breath in the chilly air. However, you're thinking, trying desperately to perfectly enunciate the worries on your mind, but there’s no subtle way to inquire if your guest is doing alright, mentally, without sounding abrasive or like you're trying to be an armchair psychologist. Maybe you should just come right out and ask it? _Hey, guest of mine, how's it going in that head of yours?_

But, before you can, Kuroo murmurs, quietly, “Picture perfect snow. It looks like the opening to a Hallmark movie.”

“Or a horror movie,” you suggest instead, and Kuroo laughs. “A body, murdered in the study, with a blanket undisturbed fresh snow surrounding the isolated bed and breakfast.”

Kuroo, gleefully playing along, gasps, dramatically, “The murderer is one of the guests! Harrowing!”

“A real Agatha Christie.”

Kuroo laughs again. Not a polite laugh to ease the tension or to acknowledge the effort of the joke without condoning it either, but a full-blown, mirthy laugh, uncontained and a little on the side of _cackle-y._

With some of the tension in the air cleared by humor, you find it a little bit easily to ask the question. “Is there a… particular reason you’re out here alone, rather than warming up by the fireplace?”

Kuroo doesn’t answer immediately, just stares out into the white expanse for a couple more seconds. Finally, he asks, “Have you ever made a snowman?”

That definitely wasn't what you expected him to say, but you nod your head anyways. “When I was a kid. Have you not?”

“No,” he says, eyes still on the falling snow. “My sister’s a lot older, so she never wanted to do stuff like that with me, and Kenma… well, Kenma doesn’t like going outside.”

“This Kenma sounds like a smart person.”

“He is,” Kuroo agrees, wholeheartedly. “Smarter than me at least.”

And there it is again, that flash of just a little bit of sadness, a little bit of gloom in the corner of his eye. Kuroo’s frowning, not with his lips, which are still in a polite narrow smile, but with his eyes, and the expression makes you frown.

It’s the holidays! Your guests can’t be sad! What kind of host would you be if you let him mope around about a missed childhood?

“Well,” you say, before you can think otherwise, “Do you want to build a snowman?”

Kuroo laughs, but quickly realizes that you _aren’t_ laughing _,_ and he gapes at you. “Oh, you were serious!”

You shrug. “Why not?”

“Because,” Kuroo starts, but it takes him a second to figure out an actual excuse. “Don’t you have things to do?”

“I just have to cook dinner. That gives us a couple hours to act like children again.”

Kuroo frowns, for real this time, and you can see the gears grinding in his brain, as he thinks, processes, argues between the two options. It’s a painfully long process, and your fingers twitch with anticipation at his response. 

“Let’s do it,” Kuroo finally says, and you see that little frown break out into a full-fledged grin, one so infectious that you feel _yourself_ starting to grin and then both of you are bounding as quickly as you can down the porch stairs without slipping on the ice, giggling as you start to gather the snow.

It’s been a while since you’ve done this, to say the least, so it takes a few minutes to re-acquaint yourself with the snow. Forming a little ball of snow in your gloved hands, you slowly start to roll it, gathering more and more of the white powder.

Kuroo is a quick learner, apparently, because after only a few minutes of watching you work, he’s started on his own, talking as he works.

It’s a little bit of a struggle to keep a conversation going, as most of your brain is focused on making the best snowman body ever and trying to ignore the cold biting into your nose and cheeks, but the both of you make it work.

Gradually, you learn about him. You learn that he’s a sports promoter that used to play volleyball, and his childhood best friend’s name is Kenma. You learn his favorite food is fish and he wanted to be a doctor until his first year of college when he switched majors, and you learn the reason why he’s spending the holidays alone at a bed and breakfast, hundreds of miles away from Tokyo.

“My family went on vacation abroad,” he says, as he leans against his sizable snowball, taking a much needed rest from your hard work. “I couldn’t go because of work, and Kenma is visiting his friend in Rio.” He shrugs, trying to appear more nonchalant about it than he clearly feels. “I didn’t want to intrude on the holidays of any of my other friends and their families.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t see it as intruding,” you say, gently. “But, of course, you’re welcome to spend them here instead, if you would like. It’s probably not preferable to family or friends, but…”

“Who says spending the holidays with you isn’t preferable?” Kuroo asks, with a grin that makes your heart skip a beat.

_What was that about a Hallmark movie?_

Your snowman is done much quicker than you expected. Much quicker than you _liked_.

Kuroo, before you can even offer, assembles the snowman for you, grunting and heaving as he places his artfully-crafted snowball head on the torso. It’s a little crooked, and, in all honesty, a little pathetic, but you both smile at it.

“Wait,” you say, remembering the bag of carrots in the back of the vegetable drawer. “I’ll be right back.”

You’re certain that you’re tracking snow through the house, but it's fine, you’ll mop later. _This_ is more important right now. In just a few moments, you have a carrot clutched in your hands, and you skid to a pause in front of the coat closet by the front door. Thankfully, you find a forgotten scarf from two seasons ago, and the hat you keep in there just in case of an emergency bad hair day, and bound down the porch steps towards Kuroo.

“Ta-da!” you announce, raising the accessories (and one carrot) like a hard-won trophy. “Would you like to do the honors?”

With you bracing the back of the head, Kuroo gladly sticks in the makeshift nose, and both of you are full-on giggling as you put on the hat and wrap the scarf around the snowman’s nonexistent neck.

You step back together, simultaneously, admiring your collective handiwork. Kuroo snaps a picture.

“He’s beautiful,” you say.

“Truly a masterpiece,” Kuroo agrees. "Who knew that the two of us could make such a beautiful son?"

You glance over at him, and he glances over to you, and then both of you are laughing again, laughing so hard your stomach hurts and you're wheezing, and just as you have the brief passing thought that you can’t remember the last time a single person has made you laugh this much in a couple hours, Kuroo’s phone rings.

He stops laughing, but still smiles when he reads the caller ID, sending an apologetic glance your way as he answers the phone.

“Hey Kenma,” he says into the phone. “Did you like the snowman? Well, that’s not very nice. We worked hard on him, you know.”

You snicker, which makes him snicker, but the expression fades as he listens to the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah, I’m done with work for now, but I have to be back in Tokyo on the first. No, no, save your money. Okay, _show-off_. Truly Kenma, I’m okay here. Have fun with Shoyou.”

Kenma, on the other line, says something, but it's quiet and unintelligible. Kuroo cheeks, already flushed from the cold wind, blush a little more.

“I’m hanging up now,” Kuroo says. “Don't forget to get me a souvenir."

Kuroo laughs at something to quiet for you to hear, and hangs up, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

“You're not going to Rio too?”

“Nah,” Kuroo says, shrugging nonchalantly. You note, with a little satisfaction, that sad look in his eyes is gone, replaced with a bright grin. “I think I’ll be plenty at home here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hanukah everyone!! Thanks for reading, the next one is Kiyoko in the linen closet, which will be a little angstier than the others in this series! See you on 12/15 for that one and I hope you have a great day/night


	4. Linen Closet (Kiyoko)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you... crying in a linen closet?"

When you’re a child, crying is a catharsis. Stub your toe, cry a little, get up and keep playing. Pain, physical or emotional, was temporary, and tears were as good of a placebo painkiller as it got. It used to feel so good to cry. Children aren't exactly eloquent creatures when it comes to emotions or injuries, so when worst comes to worst… cry about it and keep going.

But we all grow up eventually.

Eventually, crying becomes less of a catharsis and more of a guilty pleasure, except with less of the pleasure and more of the guilt. It might feel good in the moment, but, god forbid, you accidentally burden anyone else with your troubles, because, frankly, that would just be embarrassing for both parties, so crying is left for quiet nights in your cold bed or sniffles held back by a thread on your way home or, in this case, frustrated explosions of emotion while you sit on an upside-down bucket in the linen closet of your bed and breakfast.

Another shudder wracks your chest, a sob letting loose before you can clamp your mouth shut. You know, from unfortunate experience, just how thin the walls of this old house really are, and the last thing you want is for Maria, your employee, changing sheets next door, to decide to investigate those weird noises.

You try to take a calming breath. In. Out. In.  _ Out _ . 

It's not so much breathing as it is  _ wheezing _ , but it's getting oxygen in your lungs, so who are you to complain?

And then you think about it again.

_ It _ . Whatever the hell  _ it _ is. Money problems, relationship problems, mental health problems, all of the above problems piling on top of each other like a snowstorm until the front door won’t  _ open- _

Another whimper, about ten decibels louder than ideal, and you hold your breath and you hear footsteps.  _ Pass _ , please. Pass this door and move on.  _ Nothing interesting here _ .

The door opens.

For a second, all you see is a silhouette. About average height, skinny and lithe, like a runner, with dark hair. And then the light adjusts, and you see her face. She’s beautiful, no doubt about it, and with the halo your (slight) lightheadedness from the crying session, the scene is somewhat… holy… in nature.

But she’s frowning, and the worried expression is rather upsetting to see on such a beautiful face.

The woman asks, carefully, “Are you… crying in a linen closet?”

Your mouth, apparently working faster than your brain, asks, "Are you an angel?"

Silence. Well, mostly silence, because your brain is currently screaming.

"That was a weird thing to say. Sorry."

Thankfully, the woman laughs. She laughs, and you melt, firstly glad that she's laughing it off, but also because her laugh is melodic. "Trust me, that's not the first time I've heard that one. But... uh," she hesitates, looking you over, and you remember that five seconds you were bawling your eyes out. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and brush away the last of your tears. Thankfully, seeing her was enough of a shock to stop them for now, but you have a feeling you haven't seen the last of them today. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry. After all, I'm sure you didn't expect to spend your vacation dealing with an overly emotional host."

"You'd be surprised," the woman says, with a soft smile that speaks of a quiet inside joke, possibly, an inside joke for her alone. "Let's just say I've been in a somewhat similar situation before. My best friend used to have pretty bad anxiety. Actually, she's the one that checked us in yesterday, Yachi Hitoka?"

The name rings a bell. "Short, blonde, blushes a lot?"

"That's her."

_ Ah _ . You were wondering when you'd get to see the second of Yachi’s party, since she requested a room with two single beds. And here she was right in front of you. An angel on earth.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

An  _ angel _ .

"No, thanks. It's sweet of you to offer, but..."

But you don't even know  _ why  _ you're crying. It could be any number of things. Being (relatively) alone during the holidays, stress from your job, or just plain sadness and loneliness. Missing family, missing friends, wanting hot chocolate but knowing full well you ran out a week ago and haven't restocked yet. It could be any and all of those reasons and isolating a single culprit is nearly impossible.

“It’s just a lot,” you end up saying. “The holidays. Everyone likes to talk about the good parts, the food, the celebration, the presents… that you end up forgetting the bad parts too. Until they’re staring straight at you.”

No one likes to mention that your room feels colder in the winter without someone else there to warm it. No one likes to mention that your house feels emptier without the laughter and conversation of kin. No one likes to mention the stress of throwing together a holiday dinner or coming up with the perfect gift idea or looking at your bank account and realizing you might need to rethink some things.

And there it comes again, that wave, and you blink, blink, blink, praying the tide will recede until the next time you get the chance to be alone. A cocktail of anxiety and guilt and salt slowly rising, rising, rising. This woman shouldn’t have to see you like this, you don’t even know each other, and honestly, it's a little unfair to burden one of your guests with your emotional problems and-

“You’re spiralling again, aren’t you?” The woman asks, in that soft voice of hers, and you wonder when you got so transparent that a literal stranger can tell when you’re close to breaking.

The dam cracks, and the tears start to fall again. “I’m sorry,” you manage to get out. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to deal with this-”

Instead of saying anything, agreeing or disagreeing, the woman drops to her knees, crouching down next to where you’re sitting on the bucket. She looks up at you, her hand holding yours, and says, very softly, “Stop apologizing.”

Amazingly, you do. You close your mouth and let the tears flow, with the woman still there, offering hand squeezes and quiet company through your mental breakdown.

It’s… nicer than you expect it to be, just having someone there. She doesn’t say anything else, but you know she’s there to talk it out if you really needed to. For now, she’s willing to sit there and listen to your woes and remind you that there’s someone out there that does care when you’re struggling.

So you cry. You cry and the guilt and frustration slowly lessens and all that’s left of the broken dam is an empty reservoir.

It's… cathartic.

With her sweater sleeve, the woman wipes your cheeks dry. “Better?”

“Better,” you agree, and your mouth forms the first syllable of  _ I’m sorry,  _ before the woman gives you a look. “Thank you. For being here with me. I do have to say though, I would have liked meeting under different circumstances. I don’t think I look incredibly attractive mid-breakdown.”

The woman shrugs, and you see a little faint dusting of blush on her cheeks as she stands, offering a hand to help you off the bucket. “I think you might be surprised.”

You smile. You take her hand, and let her haul you to your feet.

“The name’s Kiyoko, by the way.”

“Y/n.”

“Well, Y/n,” Kiyoko says, that flush still on the tips of her cheekbones as she averts her gaze, a little self-consciously. “How about the next time you need a break, you come knock on my room door and we can go out and do something to take your mind off it?”

“I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, I had trouble writing this one because I wasn't sure if it would be relatable enough? But I figured of all years to talk about the worst parts of the holiday season, it was this one because oh lord do the holidays remind us that covid-19 sucks ass. Anyways, this is your reminder that you're allowed to feel sad right now. You might be separated from your friends and family or maybe you had to be laid off and money is tight, or maybe you just miss the way things used to be where we could go out and do things. Maybe the holidays just aren't for you, and the negative emotions weigh out the positive ones every year. All those feelings are valid, and take this as a sign to reach out to someone if you need to. [My dms on tumblr are always open.](oikawa-tuwu.tumblr.com)
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! I'll be back in five days for Akaashi's chapter in the study! Love yall


	5. Study (Akaashi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't find my briefcase."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so. I feel like I should apologize. this chapter isn't really up to my standards, and I just wanted to let you know now before you keep reading. (also sorry its two days late aha) If you follow my tumblr (oikawa-tuwu), you might have seen what's up, but basically I had a slight health problem the last couple of days. It's nbd, I'm fine, but it's giving me headaches and they get really bad at night, which is my writing time. As you can tell since I'm posting this at almost 1 am pst time. So yeah, sorry again, but I will try my hardest to get the next one done in time for Christmas! Enjoy!

You were dusting in the study when he approached you, one of your new guests, with the polite manner and glasses.

“Excuse me,” he said, softly. “Is there someplace where I can work? Just a desk and some quiet would be perfect.”

“Actually,” you say, and set down the feather duster you were using. “Right here you can.”

It had been a difficult decision to keep the study, a little room with dark wood and packed full of bookshelves. After all, keeping it meant there would be one less bedroom, and that meant less income for the business. But, in the end, you kept it as it is, citing that it would be a good escape for doing the more monotonous business aspects of your job, or for instances like this.

There’s a desk in the corner, tucked between two bookshelves, and you gesture to it. Your guest sighs, and thanks you, and hauls his luggage over to it, so you take that as your cue to leave and continue dusting in another room.

A few minutes later, dusting done, you pass by the study once more. However, you hesitate by the open doorway. There’s a sound coming from the room, like the sound of someone mumbling and muttering to himself. It’s hushed, frantic, so you decide to check on your guest to make sure he hasn’t worked himself into an early grave. You’ve seen too many young professionals check in for some peace and quiet and an escape from their work life, only to be knee-deep in papers and emails a few hours later. Best to check on him now, you figure, rather than finding a limp body to drag to dinner in a few hours, so you lean against the doorframe and take in the scene: your guest, holding his head in his hands, muttering something to himself over and over again, his luggage, open to the world, clearly rummaged through, pens and highlighters and laptop accessories scattered about.

“Everything alright in here?”

He jumps at the sound of your voice. He turns to face you, and, having taken off his glasses at some point during his obvious breakdown, you can see the bags under his eyes and his frantic expression unhindered.

“I can’t find my leather briefcase,” he says.

“And this briefcase is important?”

“I’m an editor and everything I was supposed to edit while on this vacation was in that briefcase. So yeah. Important.”

Anxiety, apparently, is contagious, because now you’re also worried for this man, that familiar unease settling in your gut. “Where was the last place you saw it?”

Your guest fiddles his fingers, anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot. It’s strange seeing this juxtaposition, seeing him go from a man that looked so well put together before with his neat sweater, polite words, well-styled hair, to him now. His hair, sticking a little strangely to one side, probably from running a hand through it, the top button on his collared shirt under his sweater undone.

“I was carrying it in my luggage, but I took it out on the train to start on some paperwork… I might have left it on the train or I might have left it at the coffeeshop I went to after the train or in the taxi I took to get here from the coffeeshop-”

“Let’s go, then.”

The man blinks, pausing for a brief second, before saying, quite flatly, “What?”

“I have a car,” you say. “If these papers are so important, let’s go track them down. Or I have a fax machine-”

He shakes his head vehemently. “I’m supposed to be the one keeping Tenma on track, and if I have to ask him to re-fax everything, he’ll hold that over me for weeks.”

“Then let’s go.”

Your guest blinks again, but this time, you can see a decision being made somewhere in that brain of his.

“Let’s go,” he repeats, sliding his glasses back on his face. “Yeah, let’s go.”

And that’s how you ended up in your car, driving down the road in silence, with Akaashi Keiji in your passenger seat.

He introduced himself, somewhere in between finding your keys and scraping a layer of snow off your windshield, so at least now you know his name. Unfortunately, his name is the  _ only  _ thing you know about him.

Hopefully he doesn’t try to murder you.

You glance over at Akaashi again. He’s looking out of the window, not at you, only the tight frown on his lips and impatient finger-fidgeting giving away how worried he really is.

Feeling your gaze, Akaashi glances over at you. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing. Just wondering if you’re about to murder me.”

Akaashi’s lips quirk into a little smile. “If I did, I wouldn’t have a ride back to the inn. Consider yourself safe.”

“That’s a relief,” you say, half as a joke, half not. “So, you said you’re an editor? What do you edit? Anything I might have heard of?”

“Maybe.  _ Zombie Night Zom’bish _ ?”

The name rings a bell, but no plot or characters come to mind, so it's safe to assume that's probably one manga you decided to pass on.

“Sounds familiar, I haven’t read it though.”

“That’s probably for the better,” Akaashi mutters, and for some reason that makes you snort. “Tenma is a good mangaka, don’t get me wrong, it’s just…”

“Not exactly highbrow?”

Akaashi nods, albeit a little hesitantly. “Let’s just say I’m glad that it’s ending soon.”

And just like  _ Zombie Night Zom’bish,  _ it looks like your trip might be ending soon, because just a second later you pull into the parking lot of the taxi service, putting the car in park outside the entrance. Akaashi, in his usual polite nature, thanks you, before sliding out of his seat and heading towards the entrance to check if they happened to have his briefcase.

Apparently it’s not there, because Akaashi gets back into the car empty-handed and frowning.

The coffee shop is next, a slightly longer trip, so you debate where to turn on some music to help with any awkward silences. Thankfully, your worries are unfounded, because you aren’t short on conversation. While you wouldn’t describe Akaashi Keiji as talkative, necessarily, he doesn’t seem to be not  _ not  _ talkative, either. He answers your questions politely, maybe in less words than you might have, but he also asks a few of his own, too, and as you approach your destination, it feels less like a weird Uber situation and more like two friends sharing a ride together.

“So after the zombies is volleyball? Why volleyball? I feel like that’s a bit of a tone shift.”

Next to you, Akaashi smiles, and you start to think that maybe his smile should be labelled as a driving hazard, because you’d much rather be staring at it than the road in front of you. “Tenma and I both played in high school,” he says, unaware of your plight. “So we both have our reasons for caring about the sport.”

“Were you any good?”

Akaashi makes a noise that can’t exactly be categorized as  _ words _ so much as a  _ fluctuating tone _ . A sound, in your personal experience, that is made when someone wants to say yes, but doesn’t want to sound cocky about it. “My  _ team _ was good at least. We made it nationals somewhat consistently. My best friend actually ended up going professional and is on the national team now.”

“Damn, I didn’t know I had a celebrity in my car.”

Akaashi laughs. It sounds different than his earlier laughs. A little less contained, a little more surprised. A little less… polite.

A hint that there’s something more there, something underneath that layer of professional courtesy and courteous greetings.

_ What else,  _ you wonder,  _ is lurking just below that surface. _

The coffee shop doesn’t have the papers either, and your last destination takes a disappointingly short time to get to, just down the street. Akaashi returns from the train station with empty hands as well, as slides into the passenger seat with a disappointed sigh, muttering something about  _ blackmail  _ and  _ faxes _ .

“I’m sorry we didn’t find your briefcase,” you say, as you turn the car engine over to head back home. “We made a trip out for nothing.”

Akaashi makes a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a hum. He starts to say something, but hesitates. A second later, he tries again, a cautious, “I wouldn’t say it was for  _ nothing _ .”

You look over at him, and you see he’s already looking at you, a little smile on the corner of his lips. Not his polite smile. Something truer, more comfortable.

“After all,” he continues. “I got to talk with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you for Christmas with Oikawa in the bedroom (keeping it rated T yall, relax)

**Author's Note:**

> You can read these on tumblr too, on my haikyuu side blog [oikawa-tuwu](https://oikawa-tuwu.tumblr.com/post/634881783202234368/not-home-for-the-holidays-a-series-of-separate)


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